


Glass Slipper

by thewildwilds



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10678059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: Koichi Kizakura doesn’t make dreams come true. He’s not a fairy godmother.He’s just a man with a job.





	Glass Slipper

If he’s being perfectly honest, Koichi has grown rather bored of the Kansai region.

It’s not that it isn’t a beautiful area, because it is. But between teaching and his actual job, he’s made fifteen visits to the region in the past year alone. Kyoto, Osaka, Kobe, and all the little cities in-between. It feels like more and more talent comes pouring in from Kansai every year, and where there’s talent, Koichi Kizakura isn’t far behind. He wishes he could scout an Ultimate in, say, Okinawa, where the taco rice is to-die-for. There’s only so much tofu and takoyaki he can stomach before it all becomes rather banal.

(The teppanyaki’s still top-notch though.)

But the trip to Kobe this evening promises to be different, something he’s yet to experience no matter how many visits he’s made.

The place sits on top a hill. The roads twist and wind, and he doesn’t realize he’s made it until he’s already there. It seems like it’d be hard to miss something like the Kuzuryuu estate, given its sheer enormity, but he can see why someone might. The whole property is walled up, smooth thick marble stretching up to the sky. The only hint of life behind the walls are the drooping pine tree branches that peek out and overhang. It makes the place seem more like a prison than a home, but with the yakuza, he supposes one can never be too careful.

There are ten men standing guard out front, and at least ten more patrolling the perimeter. Each one of them stands at attention as soon as he pulls up to the gates. He has to show them three forms of identification and submit to a thorough inspection, of him and his car, before he’s permitted on the grounds.

The inner estate isn’t nearly as unwelcoming as it appears on the outside. It’s still intimidating in its own right, but there’s a savage beauty beneath it all. The pine trees he could only glimpse from the outside are in abundance all over the property, towering as tall as the surrounding walls. The main house is traditionally-built, as he expected it to be, with its blue tiled roofs and vast architecture. Where the road cannot take him, stone steps lead the way.

He’s escorted into the main house and to the den by one of the servants. She bows as soon as she slides open the paper door. “Mr. Koichi Kizakura has arrived to see you, master,” she announces. She bows again before taking her exit.

The head of the family, Kenichi Kuzuryuu, sits on a sleek couch with his two children on either side. All three of them stand when he enters the room. “Kenichi Kuzuryuu,” he says, extending a hand.

Koichi shakes it politely. Kenichi has a firm grip. “Koichi Kizakura. It’s an honor to be invited into your home.”

They bow to each other simultaneously.

Kenichi gestures to the girl at his side. “My youngest daughter, Natsumi.” He gestures to his other side. “And my son, Fuyuhiko. He will be succeeding the clan when he is ready.”

Both son and daughter bow in turn.

He takes a moment to study them both. While they don’t share much of a resemblance with their father (apart from his stature, perhaps), the likeness between brother and sister is uncanny. Their faces are practically stamped onto each other, it’s hard to believe they aren’t twins.

“So these are my two prospects, hm?”

“That’s right. They’ve been very eager to meet you, eager to show off their talents.” Kenichi nods towards the other couch. “Please, have a seat.”

He takes his place opposite the Kuzuryuus, sinking into the couch cushions. The rumors weren’t exaggerating. Even though Koichi is at least a head taller than all of them, the Kuzuryuu family exudes an aura that’s unparalleled. It’s like being caught in a dragon’s den, just waiting to be devoured whole. Before he knows it, Koichi is reaching for the flask stashed in his inner coat pocket.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, already uncapping the flask with his thumb.

Kenichi flashes his palm. “Not at all. Although if a drink is what you want, we have a fine selection of spirits stocked in our pantry.”

“This suits me just fine, thanks.”

He takes a generous swig, bitter burning liquid sliding down his throat. The firewater does its magic alarmingly fast, clearing away his anxieties and relaxing his nerves, and just like that, Koichi Kizakura is ready to face the night, come what may.

“I suppose we should get started, shall we?” he hums. He pulls out his official leather-bound folder from his official briefcase full of very official-looking files.

(He doesn’t care so much for the theatrics, but from his experience, prospective students feel so much more uneasy if he doesn’t seem _professional_ enough, looking the way he does.)

“Let’s see here…” He licks the end of his thumb and pages through the first stack of files. “Ladies first, of course. Natsumi Kuzuryuu…”

Natsumi perks up and grins.

“Ultimate Little Sister?” He peeks up at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “That’s certainly a _unique_ talent to declare, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well keep reading! It gets better.”

Fair enough. He continues on. “Designer of the new staff uniforms for Koshien Stadium. Critically-acclaimed contributor to the fashion advice column for the Morning Sun Newspaper. Bestselling yakisoba stand—”

“Three years in a row! Lines all the way out the temple gates!” Natsumi quips proudly.

“—at the Tenjin Festival in Osaka, right? That’s quite a feat; that festival gets a lot of foot traffic for its street vendors. You really do have an extensive series of accolades. I see you’ve even been scouted as a hand model for Kamawanu and Eirakuya. Impressive, impressive… Ah, yes, _brother_ and _sister_ is what you call each other in the clan, isn’t it? I understand now.” She just grins, a cat that’s got the cream. “But Miss Natsumi, it says here you’re still in your second year of middle school.” He leans back against the couch cushions. “Hope’s Peak Academy only accepts current or prospective high school students.”

“That’s why _you’re_ here. Y’see, I’m done with those nerds,” Natsumi says, flapping a hand off to the side. “I’ve learned everything I need to know at that stupid school. It’s not like one more year is gonna do me any good. If you ask me, it makes even less sense to start my future any later. I already know my worth. Why waste time with the rest of those talentless nobodies?”

“My, aren’t you spirited.”

He can’t fault the girl for being ambitious. Skipping a grade isn’t exactly unheard of, and to have both Kuzuryuu children attending would do wonders for school publicity.

His attention suddenly falls on Kenichi’s son, who’s been silent since he entered the room. “And what does your brother think about you wanting to enter the same school year as him?”

All sets of eyes turn to the boy. Natsumi has to lean forward a bit to see around their father’s broad shoulders, but her stare is perhaps the most intense of all. Fuyuhiko stays quiet, glaring resolutely at some corner of the room.

“Fuyuhiko. Kizakura has asked you a question,” their father says, low and sharp.

Finally, her brother snorts, “What’s it matter what I think? She can do whatever the hell she wants. I’m not her keeper.”

“See? No objections!” Natsumi cracks, swinging her arm out grandly.

“We’re prepared to make all the arrangements necessary so that Natsumi’s academic acceleration runs as smooth as possible,” Kenichi supplies. He throws Koichi a pointed look that is far from subtle. The only way he could possibly make it any more obvious is if he pulled out his wallet then and there.

Koichi’s certain the Steering Committee would be all too happy to take that money off their hands. There’s always money to be made when cultivating talent, and not enough lining their pockets when it’s all said in done. Jin wouldn’t approve. He’s too selfless to rise to the bait, but he’s also too passive to try to do anything about it. _That makes two of us._

What he says is, “We’ll have to see what the headmaster decides.”

That seems to pacify her for now. He slides Natsumi’s file back into the bottom of the pile. “Moving on… Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu, Ultimate Yakuza, makes sense.” The boy is as terse as ever, but Koichi has dealt with enough adolescent boys in the classroom to know this is nothing new. “Clan heir, hm? Big responsibility.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

This family is just full of personality, isn’t it?

Koichi scans over the paper. The boy’s information is so different from his sister’s. It’s not a list of achievements so much as a list of assets. Numerous branches of profitable (if morally ambiguous) business. Over thirty thousand members and associates under his command. Connections all over Japan, and some even overseas, including Korea, China, Singapore, and the USA.

“That little paper tell you everything you need to know?”

Koichi blinks, looking up. “As much as it can, I suppose. Unless there’s something you’d like to personally share?”

“I know you and the rest of your faculty have a real colorful history concerning the law. I know you’ve been kicked out of bars and showed up to work wasted off your ass more times than you can probably count. I know Naota Shimohira is real fond of the escort services, pretty damn shameful for a moral studies teacher. I know Sadaharu Egi is drowning in so much gambling debt, we could harvest his liver and maybe a kidney or two and no one would give a shit.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Koichi hums. The lip of his flask rides along his easy smile. “You’d do well in an academic environment.”

Kenichi’s expression is like stone, hard and unyielding. “My son still has much to learn. But we’ve agreed that attending Hope’s Peak Academy would be beneficial to his growth.”

Fuyuhiko crosses his arms and sinks back in his seat.

There’s a dynamic to this family he’s missing, something he can’t exactly pinpoint. A little longer and he’d be able to figure it out. It seems like a given, considering _who_ he’s talking to; the criminal underworld doesn’t exactly thrive on being transparent. Still, it might be worth it to look into later. Call it fanciful, call it old-fashioned, even, but there’s some part of him that still believes school is meant to be a safe place for children.

He jots down a few notes while the cogs are still churning in his brain. “I’ve reviewed your applications. I’ve reviewed your examination scores. Everything seems to be in order, so I think that’s enough of the paperwork. Did you have any questions for me?”

The room goes quiet.

Surprisingly, it’s Fuyuhiko who breaks the silence. “Dorms,” he blurts out. It’s said so abruptly Koichi isn’t sure it was actually intended. Fuyuhiko fumbles, seeming to realize he’s messed up the order of his sentence, and starts over again. “The students get dorms, right? So they can live on their own?”

Koichi nods. “The school provides complimentary housing for those who request it.” He smiles, light and airy. “It’s a bit of a ways between here and Tokyo, isn’t it?”

Fuyuhiko makes a noise that Koichi translates into agreement.

Natsumi asks a few things about the school’s amenities—practice labs, recreation, dining options—and Kenichi manages to sneak in a question about broadcasting schedules. Standard fare. Fuyuhiko doesn’t ask about anything else.

“Well,” Koichi says, screwing the cap back onto his flask and tucking the whole thing into his coat. “Now that we’ve got all the official business out of the way, I don’t suppose you would be so kind as to show me around the place?”

“Of course,” says Kenichi, rising to his feet. “The estate has been in my family for generations. We’ve—”

“Actually, I’d like just the kids to show me around,” Koichi says, tipping his hat, “if you don’t mind.”

Kenichi’s jaw sets. Koichi thinks he may have toed the line, interrupting one of the most powerful men in Japan, but Kenichi’s too good of a businessman to let his feelings show. “… Very well. Fuyuhiko, Natsumi.” He turns to his children. “Show Kizakura around. Don’t be afraid to let him see everything we have to offer. Make sure he feels right at home. Be thorough,” he says, fixing them a look that says they’d do well not to mess this up.

The kids lead him out of the den. Natsumi immediately throws herself into a story about how they managed to acquire this land from as far back as the Heian period, but Fuyuhiko stays silent. Only when they’re out of earshot of the boy’s father does he speak. “Let’s get one thing straight. I ain’t a _kid,_ got it? So don’t fucking call me that.”

His sister lets out a bark of laughter. “Don’t mind him. He’s just sore his adorable little sister ended up taller than him.”

“Say that again, bitch, I dare you.”

Koichi doesn’t know whether to laugh or sigh or both. He can’t imagining dealing with this level of hostility in the classroom, but he supposes he’s dealt with worse.

Natsumi takes point, leading them from room to room and narrating with increasingly animated hand movements. There’s a clan story for just about everything in the house: the dining room table with the intricately carved legs, the suit of armor with the oni mask in the hall, even their mother’s antique firearm collection. Fuyuhiko stays quiet, hands in his pockets, like he thinks house tours are beneath him. (And maybe they are.) Natsumi’s finishing up a story about how their great grandfather managed to smuggle one of their weapon cabinets off an old war vessel when Fuyuhiko cuts in, pointing off to the side.

“Gardens are this way.”

Natsumi throws her brother a questioning look but doesn’t otherwise object. They detour around the perimeter of the house until the veranda opens up to an expansive garden stretching all the way to the southern edges of the estate. It’s impressive, to say the least—with its bright maple trees and colorful azalea bushes—and impeccably kept, not a dead leaf or blossom in sight. Grass is trimmed and hedges are pruned into domes like smooth rolling hills. The pond is the centerpiece of the garden, lined with many jutting rocks and stone lanterns; the waters snake through the courtyard and circle a single island abloom with camellias. Koi fish pop up to the surface every so often, curiously investigating the water lilies floating on the pond before diving into the depths once more. Somewhere Koichi can hear the rhythmic patter of a _shishi-odoshi_ rising and falling to its own weight. If he cared for the taste at all, he thinks this would be a wonderful place to have a cup of tea. (As it is, he still prefers the burn of whiskey much more.)

“Over there is the dojo,” Fuyuhiko says, pointing to one corner of the garden. Peeking out behind the branches of the pine trees is a small building, dim light shining through its windows.

“My brother and I do combat training there sometimes, but mostly we go off-site. The dojo’s only there for extra practice if we want it.”

At this time of night, Koichi can clearly make out the sounds of combat floating from the building. It’s not particularly loud, but it’s noticeable against the gentle burbling of the pond. Natsumi has already started to walk away, but Koichi’s attention stays on the dojo.

“Who’s in there right now?”

“Huh? Oh. Just my brother’s _tool,”_ Natsumi croons, grinning wide enough to show the points of her canines.

“ _Don’t,”_ Fuyuhiko hisses.

Koichi arches a brow. “His what now?”

“Just…” Fuyuhiko sighs, sweeping a hand over his skull. “Just come see.”

They have to cross through the garden and over one of the wooden bridges to get to the dojo. They slide open the door just in time to hear an older gentleman bark, “Again!”

A girl, around the same age as the Kuzuryuu children, lets out a feral yell and leaps forward, striking at a training dummy with quick, powerful attacks from her sword. Koichi can see the deep cuts she leaves in the wood. She goes at it again and again at her teacher’s command, coming from every angle. Her brow is sweaty and her cheeks are pink from exertion but she shows no sign of slowing down.

The man spots them standing there at the door and lifts a hand. “Hold.” The girl stops. He tucks his hands into his sleeves and approaches them; the girl follows suit.

To his right, Fuyuhiko mutters, “Bennosuke Miyazaki. He trains new recruits in the main branch.”

Bennosuke bows. “It is an honor. The boss informed me you would be paying a visit to the young master and young mistress today. They are both very well-versed in combat. Of that, you have my recommendation.” He gestures to the girl at his side. “And this is my pupil, Peko Pekoyama.”

“Koichi Kizakura,” he offers politely. “The kids were showing me around the place. We heard you from outside while we were touring the gardens.”

To his surprise, the girl drops to her hands and knees in prostration.

“Peko, _get up,”_ Fuyuhiko hisses, flushing in humiliation.

“Please forgive me,” she says, still prostrate. “I was ordered by Master Kuzuryuu not to disrupt your visit. I had intended to use the time to strengthen my skills, but I see now that was a mistake. I deeply apologize for the disturbance I have caused.”

How curious. Bennosuke acts as though everything is in order, and Natsumi crosses her arms but doesn’t appear otherwise disturbed. Only Fuyuhiko seems to be truly affected by the girl’s display of submission. He thinks he understands what Natsumi meant by “tool” now. “Ah, what should I do?” Koichi mutters dryly, rubbing the back of his neck. “This sort of thing makes me uncomfortable.”

“Forgive me,” Peko repeats, standing back to full height.

“I’ve been training her to be the young master’s bodyguard since she was a child,” Bennosuke continues, as if nothing happened. “She is fierce and formidable.”

“You’d have to be, as part of our clan,” Natsumi snorts.

“You are correct, young mistress. The young master is very important to the future of the clan. And so, it is her duty to keep him safe. There is much left to learn, but she is still a worthy sword and shield for the boss’s son. Ideally, she will be all he ever needs.”

The sour look on Fuyuhiko’s face hasn’t disappeared. He doesn’t do much to hide it, but neither Bennosuke nor his sister say anything, so Koichi chalks it up to being a normal occurrence in the household.

“I’m surprised he’d have someone so young to guard him. You have so many other seasoned associates in the clan,” Koichi says.

“Perhaps, but none with half the fortitude she has. As I said, she’s trained for this nearly her whole life. It’s in her blood. She could demonstrate, if you’d like.”

Koichi shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind. If it’s okay with Miss Pekoyama, of course.”

They all turn to Peko. The girl, who’s held herself with a stiff sort of poise and austerity, briefly falters beneath the combined weight of four sets of eyes. She looks to Fuyuhiko, as if seeking permission.

Fuyuhiko’s expression has softened around the edges, becoming something warmer, gentle. “Go on,” he urges, quiet enough that he thinks Koichi can’t hear.

Peko returns to the center of the room. She draws her sword, shifts into first form, and begins.

To call the girl _good_ would be an understatement. She is flawless, immaculate. Perhaps even a bit terrifying. No one should be able to handle a sword with such composure and yet she cuts through her invisible enemies like she has no fear of the repercussions. For most practitioners, there’s always some level of hesitation, some lingering regret, but not in her. It’s the best show of swordsmanship he’s seen since Kyosuke Munakata.

Bennosuke watches his student with a hard look, no doubt cataloging everything that will need improvement later on, but Koichi also catches a hint of… Well, it’s not _pride_ exactly, more like satisfaction he sees in Bennosuke’s old eyes. Even Natsumi seems to be enjoying the performance, bouncing on the balls of her feet and pumping her fists like a fanatic at a baseball game.

The kid (sorry—the _not_ -a-kid) thinks he’s being discreet, but Koichi feels his eyes on the side of his head all the same, watching for his reactions. Koichi stays very still. Eyes set forward, but attention divided. No sudden movements that may hint he’s aware.

When he’s had his fill, Koichi makes a show of turning in his spot, slow enough not to spook the boy. By the time Koichi faces him fully, Fuyuhiko has had ample time to avert his eyes. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

To his credit, Fuyuhiko does a fair job of concealing his reaction. His eyes flicker to the side, a little too relaxed to be completely natural. He doesn’t answer right away, glaring back at Peko’s performance and burying his hands in his pockets. After a minute, he murmurs a quiet but firm, “Yeah.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

Peko finishes up her demonstration. She sheathes her sword and falls back on both feet with military precision. Koichi offers her a smile, the kind that pulls at one side of his face but doesn’t quite reach the other. He presses a hand to his heart and bows, which makes her raise her eyebrows in surprise. “Thank you for the demonstration, Miss Pekoyama. I think it’s about time I head back now.”

“But you haven’t seen the rest of the estate yet,” Natsumi remarks, hands on her hips.

“I think I’ve seen enough.”

He says goodbye to Bennosuke and Peko, returning them to their training. Their father sees him off at the door. He shakes his hand, like he did when he first arrived, and Koichi is at least a little surprised not to feel the crinkle of a few ten thousand yen notes pressed into his palm, but he supposes Kenichi Kuzuryuu must be confident enough not to need it yet.

Koichi leaves the Kuzuryuu estate with a bow and a promise that he’ll do what he can.

 

* * *

 

For two weeks, Fuyuhiko wakes in the early morning and rushes out to the mailbox before the servants can bring in the post to his parents. It’s wholly unnecessary—the online message boards are flooded with netizens harping about the official date—but he’d rather err on safe than sorry. When the day finally arrives, Fuyuhiko leaps out of bed and hurries to get dressed. To his surprise, Natsumi is already in the family room, sitting in front of the television.

“Well, well, well. Look who else is up bright and early. Excited? Today’s the day we get our— Hey! Where are you going?”

He doesn’t have time for this. He hurries outside, taking the stone steps two at a time towards the front gates. One of the servants is already there, fishing out the day’s post from the mailbox, and that’s when Fuyuhiko spots the bright red envelopes at the top of the pile. “Gimme those.” He snatches the whole stack from the servant. (What’s his name? Tetsuo? Tatsuya? Something like that.) Maybe-Tetsuo hesitates, hands fluttering in the air, but when Fuyuhiko shoots him his best glower, he settles for bowing and scurrying away. Fuyuhiko plucks the red envelopes from the top of the mail pile and tosses the rest over his shoulder.

There are two envelopes, as he predicted, as fancy as they come: thick red stock, rice paper cord seal, gilded Hope’s Peak Academy emblem. Briefly, Fuyuhiko wonders what he could buy with the money spent printing these letters.

Natsumi grabs for them, but he keeps them out of her reach.

“Hey! What gives?”

“It’s not for you.”

“ _What?”_

He ignores her and rushes back into the house. Natsumi is hot on his heels, demanding to know what’s going on.

He feels bad. Of course he does. But this is what he wanted, so he can’t feel too bad. And besides, no matter what she says, this won’t be her only opportunity to get ahead. Natsumi can suffer through middle school for another year, like she’s supposed to.

(They’ll discuss this at length anyway, when their parents catch wind of what he’s done, but he’ll deal with all that _later.)_

By the time he finds her, he’s wheezing and his knees are threatening to buckle beneath him. She’s in the kitchen, helping the staff clean out the hearth. She doesn’t even hear him stumble in, too engrossed in scraping out the ash caked between the bricks. “Peko,” he calls when he catches his breath. When she turns, he can see where the cinders have smudged across her cheek.

“Young master?”

He holds out the envelope for her, face-up so she can see the gilded words, and tries to ignore the betrayed glare his sister aims at his back.

Peko’s eyes flicker from him to the letter. Curiosity turns into confusion, turns into disbelief. She looks up at him once more, for help, he guesses, but he keeps his expression resolute as he shakes the envelope to divert her attention back to the matter—quite literally—at hand. He sees the way her eyes move up and down as she reads the words over and over like she’s afraid she’s misunderstood something; it won’t help. No matter how long she stares, the words will never change.

The envelope reads simply:

_To the Attention of Miss Peko Pekoyama._

**Author's Note:**

> I realize canon information says Hope's Peak Academy students start attending in their second year, but I'm taking some creative license for the sake of simplicity. In this continuity, Hope's Peak has a normal three-year system.
> 
>  **EDIT:** I now have a two-part epilogue to this fic. You can read both parts [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8590423/chapters/23714424) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8590423/chapters/24089715).


End file.
